Chapter Ten
Something had gone sideways while Ethan was out. Carter saw it the second the kid stepped through the door—shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes darting like he expected a blow. He’d left here loose, almost cheerful. Now he moved like someone bracing for impact.
He mentioned his sister. Called her special. Carter filed that away.
“Sit down,” Carter said, keeping his voice even. He grabbed two sodas from the fridge and set one in front of Ethan. The kid ignored it. Carter cracked his own open and leaned back. “Let’s talk.”
“I have nothing to say. I want to leave.”
Carter raised an eyebrow. “Leave and go where?”
“The stables. To ride Storm.”
Storm. So the horse was his. “Didn’t know Storm belonged to you,” Carter said. “Bet he’s missing you.”
Ethan stayed serious. The hardness remained. Just stared at the table as if it had personally offended him.
Carter set his soda down. “I’ll go riding with you. But first tell me why you’re pissed.”
Ethan’s head snapped up. “You sit there and pretend you don’t know.”
Carter blinked. “I don’t know. I gave you a job, my truck, and you came back with an attitude.”
Ethan grabbed his phone and slammed it onto the table. The sound cracked through the room. “That’s what’s wrong.”
Carter frowned. “Do you need a new phone?”
Ethan shut his eyes as if he were holding something back, then lifted the phone and shoved the screen toward him. An app glowed there—one Carter recognized immediately.
“And?” Carter asked, keeping his tone flat.
“And what is that doing on my phone?”
“I installed it per your father’s order.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
“No,” Carter said. “I probably should’ve.” He kept his voice steady and controlled. “And your father can’t track you with this app.”
Ethan’s fingers locked around the phone, knuckles pale against the case. His leg jerked under the table in a quick, compulsive rhythm, the kind that came from pressure he couldn’t swallow down. “I don’t get how you want me to act perfect, then you do shit like this to me.”
Carter clocked every twitch. Ethan was unaware of his own actions.
Ethan’s fingertips drummed against the tabletop—sharp, irregular taps that broke the quiet like static.
The beat came unbidden, a tell he couldn’t hide even when he tried.
“I was happy in Chico. Here I have to turn into some second version of my father. I’m not him. Never will be.”
Carter recognized the pattern: not nerves, not attitude—pressure building with nowhere to go.
Carter exhaled through his nose. The kid wasn’t wrong. But orders were orders, and he’d followed them the way he always did. Still—watching Ethan now with his anger simmering under the surface—something twisted in his chest.
He hadn’t meant to hurt him. He hadn’t meant to become another man Ethan had to survive. But the tracker sat between them like a loaded weapon, and Carter wasn’t sure how to disarm it without making things worse. He leaned forward. “Ethan,” he said, “tell me what you think I’m trying to do to you.”
Ethan remained silent. But the look in his eyes said everything.
Carter kept his voice steady. “Talk to me.”
Ethan’s shoulders rose and fell in a quick, frustrated breath. “I don’t know. But I don’t need a second father trying to destroy me at every bend.”
The words hit harder than Carter expected. Destroy. Not discipline. Not correct. Destroy. The kid wasn’t exaggerating—he believed it.
“I’m not doing that,” Carter said. He leaned back in his chair, giving Ethan space. “I want you to finish your obligation to your father. After that, you get to be whoever you want, wherever you want.”
Carter studied him. The tension in Ethan’s shoulders, the way he kept his chin tucked as if he expected a blow—none of it matched the loud, reckless kid he’d first met. This was someone cornered.
The kid folded in on himself as if he expected the world to swing at him for speaking the truth. An ache, deep within Carter’s heart, was awakened by the sight of that posture, a place he kept carefully shut.
He rubbed a thumb along the seam of his jeans, grounding himself the way he used to before saying something that mattered. “Yeah,” he said. “I know what that feels like.”
Ethan glanced up, wary.
Carter kept his eyes on the table, voice low. “Growing up, I tried fitting into whatever shape my family wanted. Didn’t take.” He gave a small shrug, the kind that tried to make light of something that wasn’t light at all. “Figured the Corps might straighten it out.”
He remained silent, letting the quiet fill the space where words might have been.
He never explained how he stood rigid for years or how he trained his voice to sound flat so no one heard anything off.
He never spoke of the nights spent awake in the barracks, overhearing crude jokes aimed at people like him.
Instead, he tapped the edge of his soda can—once, twice—an old habit from long briefings when he needed to stay calm. “Turns out you can follow every rule in the book and still not fit.”
Ethan’s eyes softened, just a fraction.
Carter looked at him. “You’re not the only one who’s had to tuck pieces of yourself away.”
Ethan’s fingers tightened around the table’s edge, a small, unsteady movement. The silence between them shifted—less defensive, more exposed.
Carter leaned back, giving him room. “You don’t have to spell it out,” he said. “I’m not asking for that.”
Ethan’s breath hitched, barely audible.
Carter nodded once, slow. “Just letting you know I get the shape of it.”
He refrained from saying more; the air was thick with unasked questions. Didn’t pry. But he stayed right there, steady and unflinching, letting Ethan see that whatever truth he carried—whatever daylight he feared—Carter wasn’t going anywhere.
Ethan’s eyes flicked up, quick and wary. “Is that how you felt?”
“Yeah,” Carter said. “Like I had to hide parts of myself just to get through the day.”
Ethan’s throat tightened, like he was grinding down something bitter. When he spoke, the words came out low, almost careful.
“There are parts of me that don’t play well out loud,” he said. “Once people catch a glimpse, things go sideways fast. Some folks don’t handle it… and I’m the one who pays for it.”
He kept his eyes on the table, shoulders pulled in, like he expected the room to turn on him for saying even that much.
Carter felt the warning under the words—not poetic, not dramatic.
Just the kind of truth a kid learns the hard way.
The words hung there—careful, shaped around the truth without naming it. A warning wrapped in understatement. Ethan kept his eyes on the table, shoulders pulled in, like he expected someone to swing at him for saying even that much.
The shift in the room. Not fear—Ethan wasn’t the type to crumble—but a kind of bracing, the way a man tenses before a hit he’s taken before. Too many times.
Carter had seen Marines talk like that—men who learned early that the wrong truth in the wrong room could get them hurt. Men who learned to tuck pieces of themselves away just to stay alive.
Ethan’s fingers pressed into the edge of the table, knuckles pale. He kept his gaze lowered although he didn’t need to. The meaning sat between them, heavy and unmistakable.
Carter leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “You don’t owe anyone full broadcast,” he said. “Some things stay off comms until you decide otherwise.”
Ethan’s fingers twitched at the phrase—recognition, maybe. Carter kept going, voice steady. “And if someone can’t handle the parts you keep locked down? That’s on them, not you.” His world ran on a need-to-know basis, and Ethan deserved that kind of protection.
The words hit somewhere Ethan didn’t want to show.
Carter held his gaze on him, quiet and solid. “And you’re not alone in this room.”
He didn’t say more. Didn’t push. Didn’t reach across the table even though every instinct told him to. But he let the silence settle in a way that told Ethan exactly what he meant.
Carter had suspected Ethan carried something heavy, but from the raw honesty in the kid’s voice, he rarely let anything slip.
Carter leaned further forward, moved his forearms to the table. “Let me protect you,” he said. “And teach you how to protect yourself.”
At first, Ethan remained completely still, the silence around him thick. His fingers stilled. His breathing slowed. But his eyes—those gave him away. A flicker of something like hope, buried under fear and anger, and exhaustion.
Carter knew exactly how dangerous that hope could be—for both of them.
Carter pushed back from the table and stood, needing something to do with his hands before he said something he shouldn’t.
The kitchen gave him an excuse. First, he washed his hands thoroughly and dried them.
Next, he pulled bread from the cabinet, ham from the fridge, mustard, chips—simple things, easy things.
His hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory from years of feeding Marines who never said thank you and ranch hands who barely looked up.
Ethan sat at the table, keeping his head down. The kid looked worn out as if the morning had scraped him raw. Carter wanted to smooth the tension out of his shoulders with his hands. He didn’t.
Carter layered ham on the bread, added mustard, and pressed the sandwich together. No asking what Ethan wanted—he already knew the kid would eat whatever he gave him. He set the plate down in front of him, then made his own.
Ethan tore into the sandwich as if he hadn’t eaten all day. Crumbs dotted the table. His hair fell into his eyes, and he kept pushing it back with the heel of his hand. Something about that small, unconscious gesture tugged at Carter harder than it should’ve.
“Thanks,” Ethan said between bites.
That smile—quick, crooked, slipping out before Ethan could stop it—hit Carter low, somewhere deeper, somewhere he’d spent years locking down. But something about the kid’s softness, the way it broke through all that anger and armor, tightened something in Carter’s gut.
Ethan didn’t even know he had that softness. Didn’t know how it showed up in flashes—when he thanked someone, when he laughed, when he let his guard drop for half a second. And every time it surfaced, Carter felt a pull he didn’t have a name for.
He took a slow breath, steadying himself the way he used to before stepping into a firefight. Distance. He needed distance. The kid was younger, vulnerable, and under his supervision. Lines existed for a reason.
But Ethan’s smile lingered in his mind anyway, warm and unguarded, and the echo of it settled under his ribs like a bruise he didn’t mind carrying.
He told himself to look away. He didn’t. He needed to. For his job. For Ethan’s safety. For his own sanity. But damn, the kid made it hard.
When they finished, Ethan stood and gathered the plates without being asked. He stood at the sink—his movements careful and respectful. Like he wanted to get it right. Like he wanted Carter to approve.
Carter dried the dishes beside him, their arms brushing once, twice. Ethan stayed close. Carter pretended he didn’t notice the warmth that lingered.
They pulled on their boots by the door. Ethan had lined his up beside Carter’s without thinking, matching the angle, the spacing. That small act hit Carter deeper than it should’ve—obedience wasn’t what he wanted from Ethan. Trust was. But he wasn’t sure Ethan knew the difference yet.
Outside, the motorcycle waited in the sun. Carter swung a leg over and handed Ethan the helmet. Ethan climbed on behind him, hands settling lightly at Carter’s waist. Too light. He moved, as though he wanted to go unnoticed or not occupy any space.
Carter revved the engine. “Hold on.”
Ethan’s grip tightened—not scared, just steady. Familiar. The heat of Ethan moved through Carter’s shirt, the press of his chest against his back. Carter told himself not to read into it. He failed.
The ride to the stables kicked up dust behind them. The wind tugged at Ethan’s shirt, and every time the bike hit a bump, Ethan’s hands tightened around Carter’s ribs. Carter was okay with that. Not even a little.
When they pulled up to the private stalls, Ethan hopped off before the engine fully died. His entire posture changed—lighter, quicker, like someone had just opened a window in a stuffy room.
“Storm!” Ethan called, stepping toward the stall.
Storm lifted his head immediately, ears pricking forward. He pushed his nose over the gate, snorting as if he’d been waiting all morning.
Ethan’s face broke open in a way Carter hadn’t seen yet—pure, unguarded joy. He cupped Storm’s muzzle with both hands, forehead pressed to the horse’s cheek.
“There you are,” Ethan murmured. “Bet you thought I ditched you.”
Storm nudged him hard enough to rock him back a step. Ethan laughed—really laughed—and something twisted low in Carter’s gut.
He wanted to be the reason Ethan laughed like that. He wanted to be someone Ethan leaned into, not away from. He wanted things he had no business wanting.
Carter leaned against the stall door, arms crossed, pretending to study the horse. “He missed you,” he said.
Ethan glanced back at him, eyes bright. “Yeah. I missed him too.”
Carter swallowed the words he shouldn’t say. The ones that would cross every line he’d drawn for himself.
Within seconds, Carter was saddling his horse in the stall beside Ethan’s.
“I brought my horse from Texas. Her name is Betsy.”
Ethan looked over at her. “She’s beautiful. She must be important if you moved her from Texas.”
Instead of answering, he nodded toward the tack room. “Let’s get them saddled.”
Ethan brushed Storm’s neck, fingers gentle, voice soft. Watching him for too long brought the heavy truth into sharp focus.
He could keep his distance. He could follow the rules. He could protect Ethan. But wanting him? That wasn’t going anywhere.